The Legend, The Myth, The Reality
by BlackAvalon89
Summary: Small prompted ficlet, with the title as the prompt. Thane/Irikah musings from Thane's perspective.


**i.**

_Only an assassin from Kahje would pray for the souls of the departed._

I am a man of devout faith, but I am also a man who requires concrete evidence before I can truly believe in anything unconditionally. These are not two characteristics that go hand in hand so easily. They are contradictory, working directly against one another more often than not. True belief requires trust, blind faith in the teachings passed down to us from so long ago.

My mind has always been sharp, but my faith was not always so upheld. From early childhood, so young the memories are unclear, we are taught to revere the gods, to worship them and pay them respect they have not directly earned only for awe of their absolute divinity. Parables and legends are recited to us countless times as a conveyance of their greatness, and we bow down to them as though they were absolute truth. The scriptures and the vibrant tales they paint of times long past were always a tantalizing fantasy to consider, but words on pages hold far more ground in our imaginations than the physical world.

As a child I always found myself most enamoured with the tale of the goddess Arashu and her beloved warriors. Their harrowing tale of the defense of our people and our homeland of Rakhana against more sinister forces became something I likened my own training to over time. I thought them just stories with little, if any, basis in reality in those times, but the comparison offered me a unique comfort.

Then again, one can find their faith with great swiftness when staring into the eyes of a deity they long thought to be fantasy.

* * *

**ii.**

_The target doesn't know we're coming._

The bitter perfume of incense hangs heavy on the air, a haze thick like the metallic scent of blood, rising to meet me from one of the lower balconies. It is hardly a necessary detail, but my mind catalogues it the same as all the other facets of my surroundings behavior that is a direct product of my training, the conditioning to perceiving acute detail for later recollection and recall.

The springtime chill hanging in the breeze as it lights across my exposed fingers, the dull and constant murmur from the unwitting crowd below my chosen perch, the giddy screams of a child running from his mother across the plaza; all are separated, denoted to memory as I perform one last check on my rifle. Nothing escapes my notice; that is why our teachers herald me as the best, why I no longer serve under a mentor at such a young age.

I cannot help the thought that crosses my mind, that the seemingly innocent aroma is a foreshadowing of things to come. Blood would be spilled shortly this afternoon, for my skill is unsurpassed by my peers.

_I do not fail my contracts._

I shoulder my gun, bend to peer through the scope and gain my bearings, and begin searching the faces of the crowd below for the one that sits at the back of my mind. That face that haunts me, recalled in perfect detail each time I close my eyes. I know my partner is mirroring my actions from his own perch, but the target is _mine_; the illusion of partnership, of support, is only a formality due to our ages. We are still young, considered inexperienced and reckless as a result of an arbitrary number that all but the deliberate passage of time is powerless to control.

_I do not need help. I complete my jobs, I do not make mistakes._

I needn't pause on each face in the crowd to locate my mark, drell are so varied in coloration that the man I seek will be easily recognized. Nothing. I drop my gun, fidgeting as nervousness threatens to overtake me. I check my thermal clip for the fourth time since settling in to my position. This contract is too important to risk failure as a result of negligence. Innocent lives were at risk if the situation was not contained soon. Civilians would die if my target did not.

Static buzzes through the communicator at my ear followed by the familiar voice of my partner. "Thane, the west end of the plaza. I don't have a clear view, but you should."

I return my rifle to aiming height; resume peering through the scope to search the area indicated. Certain enough the instruction is correct, I can easily spot my target as he wades through the droves of civilians crowding the public area. His amber-colored scales serve as a beacon of sorts as I follow his movements carefully, making certain I do not lose sight of him until he has settled himself against a wall, tucking his person into an alcove that would protect him from the most obvious assaults. I had chosen my vantage point carefully, and apparently _well_.

I flick my targeting laser on quickly and settle into proper firing posture as I carefully take my aim. The timing is opportune, best to take advantage of it and finish the contract before the opportunity passes. The red of my laser dances over the target's skull, out of his sight.

_The target doesn't know we're coming._

Even breaths. In, out. Steady aim.

_There is no room for mistakes, no allowance for failure._

My scope is suddenly no longer occupied by my target and it takes only a brief moment of confusion to break my concentration before I realize what has happened. I find myself instead staring into the eyes of what can only be a goddess. My blood turns to ice in my veins as my mind registers the woman who has stepped between my target and myself. Mother. Warden.

_Arashu_.

'_**How dare you?'**_

I cannot hear her words but I feel their impact no less, as sure as a blow to my chest as I read them from her lips. People are shouting now and my target is escaping now that the game has been made, but there is nothing but the sunset eyes in my scope. All else is distant, my world closes in on me as our standoff continues. I break first, allowing my aim to drift, my targeting laser slowly dancing away in a visual surrender. I slowly realize my whole body is trembling, shaking and convulsing in shock. The rifle slides from my fingers, clattering to the ground between my feet in a deafening meeting of metals.

The name slips from my lips of its own volition before I have the opportunity chase my mind to the places it has gone.

"_Siha_."

* * *

**iii.**

We sit in silence together, a more than normal occurrence for us these days.

It has been some time since I threw myself before her, begged her forgiveness for my crimes committed against her judgment. I have continued to visit her in the time since as my work allows out of due courtesy in accordance to the debt I owe, and the tension has lessened with each passing day. She is still uncertain of me, of my presence, of its purpose, but she has stopped her attempts to convince me that my best option is to leave and not return. She no longer scolds me, nor tells me to be gone from her sight. Instead now, she is all questions and curiosity as to my motivations.

_You're here again? Why? What are you doing here? What do you want from me?_

Were it I had the words to respond to her inquires, but I am not certain even I know the truth of the answers she seeks. I tell myself I wish to look after her safety, but there is something more to it. _How_ much more I have yet been unable to discern. All I am aware of is that I feel a sense of responsibility, a call to duty that has left me with a lingering attachment to this woman.

_Irikah_.

For the time being, merely lingering in her presence seems to satiate this inherent need. We are very different people, but to say she is pleasant to be around does not adequately describe the feeling. Her voice is soothing, our conversations are always interesting, and her comments are never dull. She doesn't seem to mind my company, as uncomfortable as it makes her, and my arrival is always heralded with a witty remark. I pay it no mind, perhaps it too will pass when given more time.

I admire her greatly in all aspects, and I have made no secret of it, but perhaps what fascinates me most about her is her creativity. She is able to perform actions with her hands, her body, which I could never dream of for myself. I am a master of my craft and so is she, but her skill never fails to leave me feeling inadequate. I am only trained in the art of killing; the only actions my hands have been honed to perform are those that bring death. Her hands are adept at cultivating beauty, bringing more life to the world she inhabits. There is a glow she leaves in her wake, lingering on all she touches, and I cannot help but wish for it to pass over myself as well.

She looks up from the canvas before her and I meet her gaze with a gentle smile. Never in my life would I ever be able to forget those eyes. I notice a small smudge of paint on her cheek, the bright orange stark against her aquamarine scales. Sunlight across still, clear ocean waters. I teasingly remark on it, and she laughs bashfully, her lips turning shyly as she wipes it away carelessly before resuming her work.

It is always her smile that causes me to realize how very wrong I was in my first impression of her.

She is not the goddess Arashu; it is the goddesses who wish they could be _her_.


End file.
